tagMatureHelena's Hero Ch. 01

Helena's Hero Ch. 01

byEosphorus©

There are decisions in a person's life which can define a person forever.

Every so often, one is faced with a specific kind of moment. At such times, the choices you make reveal what kind of person you are. Sometimes, it's as simple as taking a moment out from a busy schedule to help a friend. Every so often it involves a real test of courage, physical or otherwise.

I came across such a moment in the most mundane of surroundings. I was sitting in my car on a Thursday night in the parking deck at work listening to a football game.

I'd graduated college the previous June, degree in hand and big plans. I was lucky enough to land a job with a top firm in my field, working on technology that would be used by NASA and could lead to breakthroughs in alternative energy. I was thrilled. I'd be helping build the future.

It was hard work, but I believed it was meaningful. Plus, I was eager to get ahead. I'd put in ten or even twelve hour days, stopping at the gym on the way home then back to the apartment I shared with a friend. He bartended and wasn't home nights so it was usually a solitary dinner for me and then I'd fall asleep exhausted.

There was no time for girls, no time for anything. I'd even come in on Saturday sometimes. I felt like I was getting noticed, though, my supervisor Doug pulling me aside the week before and complimenting me on the work I was doing.

A bright spot amidst the challenging work was Gina Garcia. Gina was the receptionist for our department on the fifth floor. Every morning, she'd great me with a big smile and a "good morning, Jonah!" She'd flash her dark brown eyes at me and sometimes we'd flirt a bit before I headed off to my work in the simulation lab.

Gina was cuteness personified, shorter than me by a foot with a nice round butt, full breasts, long black hair, and a surplus of Latina good looks. I was interested in her, but wasn't sure if she was into me.

When Doug asked me to work late that fateful Thursday, there was no way I was going to refuse. He was preparing a huge presentation for the senior executives scheduled for the next morning. I knew the fact that he asked me and only two others to stay late was a big deal, indicating a growing trust in me. It didn't matter that my pro football team was playing and I was looking forward to the game. I'd be working.

Around eight we ordered take-out from the pizzeria around the corner. As soon as it arrived, Doug grabbed his meatball sub and headed into his office. He told us to eat and take our time. He was going to check over the presentation. From past experience, I knew he'd be in there at least a half hour.

I decided to catch a few minutes of the game on the radio in my car, taking my chicken parm sandwich with me.

"Dude, text me if he comes out and I'm not back," I told my friend Greg.

"Will do," he said, barely glancing up from his phone.

I'd been worried about the game all week. Our best receiver was hurt, we were beat up in the secondary, and playing on the road after playing on Sunday. To my pleasant surprise, however, we'd taken an early lead and appeared to be rolling.

I finished off the last of my sandwich, ready to head back up. There were only a few cars in the parking deck, including a blue Mercedes sedan. I saw the lights flash on the Mercedes through my rearview mirror, someone with a key fob opening the doors. Its owner stepped out of the elevator and strode towards her car.

It was Helena Davis-Wickham, senior vice president. I knew her instantly, as I'd had a crush on her since the first day I started work and she said a few words to the new employees during orientation.

You see, I've always liked older women. During college, I developed intense crushes on a few of my female professors. It was the same way with a couple of teachers from high school, too. This preference helped my grades, though. I studied my ass off in a subconscious effort to impress them, as if they'd want to fuck me because I overachieved.

Yet no MILF of my dreams could hold a candle to Helena. She was tall, with straight ash blonde hair parted down the middle and cut neck length. Her hair framed a face highlighted by high cheekbones, a thin nose, and light blonde eyebrows. She bore herself with an easy, regal grace projecting calm confidence coupled with a sharp mind.

Helena also had the most dazzling green eyes I'd ever seen. They were deep yet bright, a shade lighter than jade and hauntingly iridescent. It was impossible not to be distracted by them.

Helena was always dressed in designer suits with knee-length skirts and high heels that hugged and accentuated her curves yet remained impeccably professional. Her clothing hinted at a stellar figure underneath. She had an ample chest and a round ass which drove me crazy. Her butt wasn't what you'd call fat, but it was soft and curvy like a woman's rear end should be.

Helena was at least twenty years older than me and I lusted after every inch of her. I dreamed of being her boy toy, at her beck and call and subservient to all her many perverse demands.

I watched her in the rearview mirror and sighed. Helena was as unattainable a dream to me, a lowly corporate peon, as some queen of old was to a humble stable boy. Still, a guy could dream.

That's when it happened, my moment of decision.

Helena was striding along, her keys in one hand and her bag slung over her shoulder, the clip-clop of her high heels the only sound in the silence of the parking deck.

There was a sudden flash of movement from the shadows, a bulky figure emerging from behind a column lunging at her. It was a large man in dark clothing and he grabbed her from behind. They struggled, her purse falling to the ground. Helena shrieked and screamed as the man pulled her towards a nearby stairwell.

I could've called the police and let them handle it, maybe shouting something to try and chase the attacker away. In the shock and surprise of the moment, though, I didn't pause to think. Instead, I ran across the parking deck. I yelled, but the assailant didn't seem to hear me.

Looking back, I should've paused for a moment and considered the situation rationally. Sitting on my backseat next to my gym bag was my baseball bat. I liked to hit the batting cages when I could. Pausing even a moment to grab it would have been the smart thing to do, but I was going on instinct. It's amazing I wasn't killed.

By the time I reached them, Helena's attacker had pushed her into the stairwell. He was on top of her, a hulking figure with short blonde hair and broad shoulders. She was screaming, clawing and struggling furiously.

I flew into him hard, knocking him into the cinderblock wall. He had a knife in hand which clanged to the ground.

He didn't pause, cold gray eyes glaring as he lunged at me. He was an older man, in his fifties by the look of him, but powerfully built and strong as an ox.

A minute earlier my biggest concern was my pro football team's third-down conversion rate. Now I was grappling with a crazed psychopath possessed of what felt like inhuman strength. Helena was gone. I figured she'd fled the scene and I was left to fight off the maniac myself.

In all my life, I'd only been in one fight. This guy called my older sister Juliette a nasty name when I was in ninth grade, shouting it across the cafeteria and I charged him. We grappled, but the teachers broke it up before anything else happened. Now here I was doing battle with a crazed killer, and losing.

Helena's attacker forced me down on my back against the stairs. He got hold of his knife and stabbed at me. I twisted my torso, avoiding his first stab. I reached for his throat and he slashed at my arms. His knife cut deep, my left forearm erupting in an explosion of pain.

The attacker raised his knife again, poised for another stab. His face suddenly contorted and he roared in agony, a jet of liquid spraying in his eyes. He dropped the knife, desperately covering his face.

Helena had pepper-sprayed him. She'd only run off to grab the spray from her purse and hadn't abandoned me, after all.

Helena's assailant reeled, howling in pain. I staggered to my feet and kicked the lowlife in the face with all my remaining strength, my heel smashing against his forehead. The blow sent his head backwards where it slammed against the cinderblock wall of the stairwell. He fell to the ground like a lump of meat.

I stood there, my hands shaking, looking down at him. He lay unconscious, a great inert bulk.

Helena looked at me, her eyes filled with horror. Her hair was disheveled and her shirt torn. She was bleeding from her lip.

"Oh, God!" she shrieked.

My shirt felt wet and I looked down. There was a red spot above my hip where the attacker had slashed at me and I thought he'd missed. He must've slashed me after all, I realized, but not too bad.

The wound to my arm was another matter. My entire shirt sleeve below the elbow was soaked with blood. I felt light-headed at the sight and collapsed on the stairs.

Helena ran back to her purse again, calling 911 and calmly describing the situation. When she was done, she crouched down next to me.

"Hang in there," she said. "It's, um, Jonas, right?"

"Jonah...Jonah Sullivan," I muttered, fading fast.

"It's going to be all right, Mr. Sullivan," Helena said, grasping my hand tight.

The next thing I knew policemen were looming above me, telling me to hang on. Then the paramedics showed up and I was on a stretcher being raised into the back of an ambulance. Doug and a few co-workers stood nearby watching, their faces ashen.

***

The next hours were mostly a blur.

I was brought into the emergency room barely conscious. I recall a doctor telling me I'd been very lucky and could've bled out. I wondered who ever heard of dying from a stab to the arm. Cut a main artery and that's what can happen, though.

I underwent surgery. I remember getting wheeled into the operating room, then a dim recollection of the recovery room before being moved to a regular room afterwards.

When I stirred a short time later my sister Juliette was sitting by my bedside. She's three years older than me and my only family in town. Our parents retired and moved south only a few months earlier, right after my graduation.

"Juliette," I mumbled, still in a drug-induced fog.

"Jonah," Juliette said, smiling but concern written on her face. "What the fuck?"

"What was the score?" I asked.

"What?"

"The score. Of the game."

"Really, Jonah?" She shook her head. "You're too much."

Juliette took out her phone and tapped on it a few times.

"They won," she announced. "Thirty-six to six."

"Good," I mumbled, drifting back off to sleep.

I stirred again later to the sound of a woman's voice.

"I don't want to disturb him," she whispered. "I'll come back."

I opened my eyes, still in a daze, and saw Helena. When I'd last seen her, her shirt was torn and her hair disheveled. Now she was dressed neatly again, but her lip was swollen and she had a black bruise on her beautiful cheek.

"Ms. Davis-Wickham," I mumbled.

"You can call me Helena, Jonah," she said.

"Yes, Ms. Davis-Wickham."

"Thank you for helping me, Jonah."

"Yes, Ms. Davis-Wickham," I murmured again.

Helena leaned over and kissed my cheek.

I fell back asleep, listening to Helena and Juliette chatting quietly as I drifted off.

"You must be very proud of your brother," Helena said. "He did a noble thing."

"Well, he's always been a hopeless romantic," Juliette mused. "He could never resist helping a damsel in distress."

***

I was feeling much better when I woke up again, my mind clear once more.

My parents, Juliette told me, were driving up from South Carolina and I gave them a call. I could hear their relief when they heard my voice and realized their only son was going to be fine.

"Juliette said it happened at your work?" my mother said.

"A woman was being attacked in the parking lot, mom," I told her.

"What were you thinking?" she wailed. "You should've called the police."

"I couldn't just sit there and let her get raped until the cops showed up, mom."

"You did the right thing," my dad chimed in. "We're proud of you."

They released me from the hospital that afternoon after I'd gone over everything that happened with two detectives who came to interview me.

Two days later the full impact of what happened in the parking deck was revealed.

Helena's attacker was a man named Wesley Rueben Jones. The police linked him to two unsolved rape-murders from three years earlier. It sounded like a strong case, too. The cops had DNA evidence and items belonging to the victims were found in Jones's apartment.

Jones had been living in San Antonio for three years and was a few days later linked to a pair of rape-murders there. He came back north six months ago and worked as a security guard in our building until August. That's how he knew how to bypass security and get into the parking deck undetected. There was speculation he may have specifically targeted Helena.

It was all over the news, including my name. My cell phone started ringing and the inbox in my e-mail was flooded with messages. A news van even showed up in front of Juliette's where I'd agreed to stay for a few days until I felt stronger. How they learned I was there I've no idea.

The reporter, a pretty brunette with bright blue eyes named Diane Genovese, knocked on the door and asked to speak with me. The last thing I wanted was to do a TV interview, especially one casting me in the role of hero. I really am that shy. Still, I felt bad for the media people. After all, they'd jobs to do. So I drafted a quick statement and Juliette went out to read it.

We watched Diane Genovese's report on the evening news. There she was in front of Juliette's place, microphone in hand as Juliette stood next to her.

"Although Sullivan declined to be interviewed," Diane said. "His sister Juliette Sullivan has the following statement from her brother. Go ahead, Miss Sullivan."

Diane pointed her microphone at Juliette, who glanced at the paper with my words and read them in a clear, even voice.

"Three days ago I witnessed a woman being assaulted," Juliette read. "I took what action I could to put a stop to it and, fortunately, I was successful. This does not make me a hero, however. I only did what any decent person would have. I would prefer no further media attention. Thank you."

And that was all the coverage I received. The local media moved on to the next tragedy du jour, forgetting all about me.

***

I returned home the Tuesday after the attack.

My forearm still ached and under the bandages was a nasty scar, but otherwise I felt mostly myself. The batting cages were out of the question for a while, though.

I had a supply of casseroles in the fridge provided by the ever-giving Juliette and the rest of the week on my hands. My plan was simple: rest, recover, and catch up on my reading. There's a lot to be said for downtime, especially after being so busy for so long.

Still, by Friday night I was getting bored. I ate the last of Juliette's casseroles and settled into the couch, pouring myself a glass of beer. My only plans for the evening were to have a few beers while I finished the classic science fiction novel I'd been reading.

I'd barely opened the book when there was a knock at the door.

Looking through the peephole, I practically jumped when I saw who it was.

"Ms. Davis-Wickham," I said, opening the door. "I mean, uh, Helena. Hello."

"Hello Jonah," Helena said. "May I come in?"

"Of course. Come on in. I, uh, can I take your coat?"

"Certainly. Thank you."

Helena removed her coat. Underneath was a navy blue suit. The outfit looked expensive and fit her perfectly. My eyes glanced quickly at her figure as I took her coat.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Jonah," she said.

"Not at all," I assured her. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you something?"

Helena noticed the full glass of beer on the coffee table.

"One of those would be great," she said.

"Right away."

I hurried into the kitchen and poured her a beer. Back in the living room, Helena was sitting on the couch with her legs crossed taking in the décor. I'd say my place was decorated better than most bachelors, but not by much.

"There you go," I said, handing Helena her drink.

I sat down on the couch next to Helena but careful not to sit too close. I took a sip of my beer as Helena did the same.

"I wanted to stop by and talk to you," she said. "I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not."

Helena looked at my arm and its bandages.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked.

"Not so much anymore," I said.

"Good." Helena sipped her drink. "I'm glad."

"What about you?" I asked. "How're you holding up?"

"This whole thing is so overwhelming. Worst of all, every time I turn on the news it's all about fucking Wesley Reuben Jones. God dammit, why does it seem like the media always uses all three names with these guys?"

"I don't know," I said. "I think it goes back to John Wilkes Booth."

Helena nodded. She took another sip of beer.

"Jonah, you saved me from a serial killer!" she blurted out, almost like she'd just realized it.

"The way I remember it, towards the end there, it was you who saved me from a serial killer."

Helena cast me a wry smirk.

"Did you know I'm a widow?" she asked.

"No, I didn't."

"My husband Craig, he died seven years ago. Massive heart attack at thirty-six. No warning signs whatsoever. He left me with a nine year old daughter. Erin's still not over losing him. My death would've crushed her."

Helena turned away, struggling to keep her composure.

I moved next to her, putting my arm around her shoulder. Regardless of my crush, it was an innocent gesture. Helena leaned close to me, resting her head on my shoulder.

I held her like that, neither of us saying a word. It was torture for me. The rational part of my brain wanted to comfort her in continued innocence, but feeling her so close and smelling her delicate fragrance drove the rest of me mad.

I resisted my impulses. Besides, I told myself, sex was probably the last thing on her mind.

Helena lifted her head and sat up. She shifted such that we faced one another. I stared into the depths of those endless green eyes and couldn't look away.

The next moment our lips were locked. I'm still not sure who initiated it. Maybe neither of us did, as sometimes these things have a momentum all their own.

I remember every tiny detail of that first kiss. It started out gentle and tentative, two pairs of lips seeking each other out carefully. That initial caution passed quickly, however, turning into eager exploration. I pushed my tongue against her lips and they opened.

Our tongues twirled around each other, my mind racing. I could scarcely wrap my mind around the incredible reality of the situation. I was kissing Helena Davis-Wickham. Not just kissing her, either. We were making-out, tongues dancing and hands groping each other.

"Jonah," she murmured.

I kissed her neck and she moaned.

"I need you," she sighed. "Right now. Fuck me, Jonah."

"Helena, are you sure?" I asked.

"I'm not some coy young girl, Jonah," she said. "When I tell you I want you to fuck me, I'm sure."

***

We stumbled towards my bedroom, making-out on the way. Helena kicked off her high heels and we stood in front of my bed. I was out of my mind with lust by this point, pulling her close and kissing her on the mouth.

Reaching down, I undid the buttons on the front of her suit jacket. She let it slide off her shoulder and tossed it aside. Underneath was a white dress shirt buttoned down the front. It complimented her figure, especially her full bosom.

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byEosphorus© 7 comments/ 82763 views/ 45 favorites

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